The Big Bad Wolf (Alex Cross 9)

I began to scour the area for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the hell else could they be?

Nielsen said, “I think he has a mike on. You see it?”

“He’s definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us,” I said. “Talking into his collar too. They’re moving on Gautier.”

Chapter 86

THERE WERE THREE of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time, we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small dark park?

The kidnappers were keeping close to Park Drive, and I figured they had a van or truck out on the street. They looked confident and unafraid. They’d done this before: grabbed purchased men and women. They were professional kidnappers.

“Take them now,” I told Senior Agent Nielsen. “Gautier is at risk.”

“Wait until they grab him,” the response came back. “We want to do this right. Wait.”

I didn’t agree with Nielsen and I didn’t like what was happening. Why wait? Gautier was hanging out there too much, and the park was dark.

“Gautier is at risk,” I repeated.

One of the men, blond, wearing a Boston Bruins windbreaker, waved to him.

Gautier watched the man approach, nodded his head, smiled. The blond had some kind of small flashlight in his hand. He lit up Paul Gautier’s face.

I could hear them talking. “Nice night for a walk,” Gautier said, then laughed. He sounded nervous.

“The things we do for love,” the blond said. He spoke with a Russian accent.

The two of them were only a few feet apart. The other abductors held back, but not far.

Then the blond whipped a gun out of his jacket pocket. He pushed it against Gautier’s face. “You’re coming with me. No one will hurt you. Just walk with me. Make it easy on yourself.”

The two others joined them.

“You’re making a mistake,” said Gautier.

“Oh, and why is that?” asked the blond. “I’ve got the gun, not you.”

“Take them. Now,” came the order from Senior Agent Nielsen.

“FBI! Hands up. Back away from him!” Nielsen shouted as we ran forward.

“FBI!” came a second shout. “Everybody, hands up!”

Then everything went crazy. The other two abductors pulled out guns. The blond still held his to Agent Gautier’s skull.

“Back off!” he screamed. “I’ll shoot him dead! Drop your guns. I’ll shoot him, I promise you! I don’t bluff.”

Our agents continued to move forward—slowly.

Then the worst thing happened—the heavyset blond shot Agent Paul Gautier in the face.

Chapter 87

BEFORE THE SHOCK of the gun blast had faded, the three men took off running very fast. Two of them galloped toward Park Drive, but the blond who’d shot Paul Gautier sprinted out onto Boylston Street.

He was a big man, but he was motoring. I remembered hearing from Monnie Donnelley that great Russian athletes, even former Olympians, were sometimes recruited into the Mafiya. Was blondie a former jock? He moved like it. The confrontation, the shooting and everything else, reminded me of how little we knew about the Russian mobsters. How did they work? How did they think?

I took off after him, an overload of adrenaline rocketing through my body. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. It could have been avoided. Now Gautier was possibly dead, probably dead.